


Ehs ah Bissel, Dein Hartzs ihz Shtihl

by Trekkele



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Jewish Steve Rogers, bucky barnes discovers himself through food, everyone is jewish because im tired and i said so, food is a jewish cure for anything why not hydra? i ask you, fucking nazis my dudes, not in detail but like, since therapy is hard, someone get this boy some SOUP, usual Hydra warnings apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:15:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25009828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trekkele/pseuds/Trekkele
Summary: The Asset needs to eat, apparently, because it (he?) is only 1/5 machine and going through some fucked up third puberty (thanks a whole lot HYDRA!). The Asset figures, so why not spend his stolen nazi money and eat well.And if he remembers some things along the way? Even better.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & a decent meal
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30





	1. Chicken Soup for the American(?) Soul

**Author's Note:**

> title is yiddish, because Bucky is jewish in this fic and so is everyone else. Because that's the food i know.  
> translation - eat a little, your heart is quiet/empty/still. 
> 
> this was originally posted on tumblr, and then i remembered i wanted to make it a short series

Things The Asset, formerly of Hydra, currently of ‘fuck off I don’t do that anymore’ knew as fact:

  1. Hydra sucked.
  2. He had a not insignificant amount of brain damage, and a _very_ significant amount of memory loss, mostly due to fact 1.
  3. His Ma made the best kneidlach this side of the river, followed closely by Sarah Rogers.



He was not entirely certain of his name ( _your name is James Buchanan Barnes_ _and_ _you’re my friend_ ) or who Sarah Rogers was ( _mission target:_ Rogers _, Steven G._ _mission parameters: elimination with extreme prejudice._ ) and why he knows with unwavering certainty that her matzo balls were only second-best, but what can he do?

It's not like they had been keeping his memories in one of those showy vaults of theirs, locked up to no one but him. (He checked.)

But then there’s this dinky little diner, stuck in the middle of Nowhere, New Jersey, advertising the best matzo balls you’ve ever eaten, better than bubbe used to make! (possible. His Bubbe’s specialty had been lekech and kukskes). 

And the knowledge - not a memory, not yet, but a fact he knows - comes rising to the top of his empty head, and he kinda had to see this for himself.

If only to defend his mother's apparent throne.

The waitress is bored, he can tell, cracking her gum and giving him a tired smile. She’s got two kids and an ex-husband, if the clumsy braided bracelets of colorful yarn and the tan line on her ring finger mean anything at all, and he tips her a dirty hundred once the soup arrives.

It’s Hydra money, and if he can leave it scattered over the continental US in diners like this, it’ll be better spent then it would have been.

(Or hey, maybe Hydra had a perfectly good reason for the death ray! he thinks sarcastically at the emphatically not-sticky tabletop, clearly the kind of man who needed an audience for his wit.)

The soup is ok, salty and clear, three kneidlach floating between the vegetables. Fluffy, not too dense, and a hint of basil for some reason.

Not bad, The Asset thinks, but Ma’s were still better.

Pa used to take him and Stevie to shul, every Friday when the weather was good, talking up his Ma’s soup on the way home till they could almost taste it.

He lets the memory sit on his tongue, heavy and almost sweet, till he shuffled back out into the dark, leaving a twenty and another tip behind.

It’s nice to remember something other than that electricity arcing through his brain and pinning his arms to the chair.

Now if only he could remember who this  _ Steve  _ was.


	2. Pastrami on Rye, Extra Pickles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's strange to remember other people more then you remember yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shegetz (yiddish, noun) - non-jewish boy, or teenager.

He doesn't remember to hold the Mayo. 

It's such a dumb thing, to forget. Or to  _ remember _ . He can't remember if they ever taught Becca to dance, or if she figured it out on her own, or if Gracie's bat mitzvah was in ‘42 or ‘39, or if Sarah had died in winter or spring. 

But  _ extra pickles _ , this he remembers to ask for.

It's not until after he bites into the sandwich that he realizes the extra pickles weren't for him, and that he'd always asked them to hold the Mayo, those few times they'd had a real diner meal. 

He can't remember how to smile without fearing broken ribs but fucking. Extra pickles. He stares down at them in betrayal.  _ This _ he's got. 

Sometimes he thinks it would have been easier to crawl back in the Potomac once the  ~~mission~~ Captain had been laid out on the riverbank for someone to find.

But see, this is something else he does remember, along with the pickles. 

He doesn't do easy. Doesn't take the quick choice. He never has. 

(Of course he doesn't, he has(?) had(?) was born into a family with three sisters and had chosen the most stubborn, angry, fighty little Irishman Brooklyn had to offer. He was to stupid for easy, had had it bred out of him for decades.)

He crunches down on one of the pickles that weren't for him, wondering which one of the nameless faces crawling through the empty passages in his brain they would have belonged to. 

Steve - who was easy to put a name to, with his museums and books that all felt wrong - blonde and blue and a shegetz’s colouring with a yeshiva boys love for arguments, big/little/quiet/loud. Or maybe the girl with laughing eyes and dark brown hair, curling like a rain cloud. 

Becca. She had been - Becca. Who had liked tomatoes.

Gracie has been the one who liked pickles. Her name gets there first, arriving with a prickle behind his eyes, and he almost chokes when he realizes he can remember her face, almost without trying. 

She'd steal his and ask for Steve's and wait patiently when he said no - because he always gave her half of ‘em anyways.

She'd wanted to be a reporter when he'd left. Said that everyone was telling the same side of the story.

“Who's gonna report on women marching for the vote of all the reporters already got it? Who's gonna go out there and tell them that unions are saving more’n just men's lives? It ain't the guys at the paper now, is it??”

She'd stood there, incandescent with righteousness, arms on her hips and the morning paper scattered over the floor. Steve had looked so proud.

Gracie was the one to tell stories for Steve's sketches - the street ones, ordinary people and ordinary lives. She'd always made them sound incredible - like running a pushcart was an honor and a privilege, something everyone should aspire to. (She could make them sound terrible too.)

He stared at his empty, plate wondering where the sandwich had gone. He didn't feel full. 

“You ready for the check?”

“Actually,” he said, realizing he could. That he had enough, there was enough, and all he had to do was ask. “I'll take another. Pastrami on rye, extra tomatoes, hold the Mayo.”

“You want a coffee with that?”

“Black please.” Can't have milk with meat. He knew that too. He wonders why. 

“You can add other stuff to the sandwich, ya’know,” ‘Chloe’ her name tag said, mistook his silence as indecision, or maybe curiosity. “Fried onions, pickles, olives, all kinds of stuff. It's on the menu.” 

“Huh.” He thought about it, about knowing what Becca would want, what Steve or Gracie or...Alice. What Alice would want. “Yeah. I'll try the fried onions.”

The waitress grinned. “I'll get that to the kitchen for you.”

If he couldn't remember what he'd liked, buried under the bricks and clay they'd shoved in his head, well. He'd just have to figure it out all over again. 

The fried onions were delicious. He left Chloe a note with the tip, thanking her.

You don't need a functioning memory to be polite, and he could almost remember the way his Ma’s smile curled when he left.

**Author's Note:**

> so far i have three more ideas for this, but if theres a particular food/memory you want to see, drop it in a comment and pray for my attention span
> 
> characters can be added as necessary


End file.
